


Revolution is Timeless

by HooperMolly



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HooperMolly/pseuds/HooperMolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern cafe AU in which Marius is the manager of the Musain and allows his friends to meet there after closing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolution is Timeless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mybelovedcheshire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/gifts).



> I've done my best to avoid detailed physical descriptions of each character. We all have our favourite portrayals and it's more enjoyable if we aren't being compelled to picture someone else. The fic takes a blend of book and musical and thus does not take place in an alternate universe of the book, or an alternate universe of the musical, but an alternate universe that combines the two. This will most likely serve as a springboard fic that I will use to guide a series of drabbles set in the same modern universe. (Those who have read the brick may find some of the description a tad repetive but I am trying to make the amis who aren't prominent in the musical accessible to those who have not read the book)

Somewhere in Paris, on a busy little street not far from a station, there was a comfortable little café called Musain. 

It wasn’t all that big, and it could have been more modern, but it was quaint and warm and often smelled of fresh flowers. 

If you were to enter Musain when it was open you would often find a vibrant young woman making coffee, or a pleasant young man standing behind the counter and reading a book. 

When it was closed, there was a good chance you would come across a small group of young men (and the vibrant young woman) gathered around the tables and discussing politics, law, society, literature, and whatever else took their fancy. 

As long as it was not a Monday you would find a second man there, sometimes in the kitchen and sometimes taking orders. He knew every regular by name and if you asked him to add something to the menu it would be there within a week. 

The second young man was named Marius Pontmercy and he was the manager of Musain. For all intents and purposes he was the owner, his grandfather Monsieur Gillenormand being little more than a name on the legal documents. 

Once a month Grandfather Gillenormand, whom Marius had addressed as Gramps since childhood, would insist on having a business meeting with his grandson to discuss how things at the café were progressing. 

The meeting was in reality little more formal than a coffee after closing on a Sunday afternoon, no matter how much Gramps pretended otherwise. He’d always been far more interested in the prestige of owning a successful business. 

The day to day business of ordering stock or making sure that the equipment was properly maintained had never appealed to him. He didn’t even bother with paying rates or wages anymore. 

Eponine would tell him that it was because Gramps trusted Marius, but Marius knew that the reality was that Gramps just couldn’t be bothered anymore. 

The only reason that Gramps stayed the owner of the café was because of Marius’ love for the place. He had a popular chain of health food stores that occupied the majority of his time. 

Marius suspected, and he hoped he wasn’t being too optimistic, that it was only going to be a year or two before Gramps decided to hand the business over to Marius proper. 

They’d been engaging in small talk for an hour now, Gramps trying his hardest to show an interest in Marius’ daily life but he’d never been good at hiding his disdain for Marius’ new circle of friends. 

“So, what’s this I hear about the Digne bakery closing?” He asked, having finally grown weary of tales of meetings and planned trips to conferences, although he did like the sound of the one who wrote poetry. 

It was a dying art and it was nice to know that there were still some young people with respect for that sort of thing. 

“It’s already closed Gramps. Monsieur Bishop has gone off with his sister to become a missionary.” Marius replied, staring into his empty cup as though it were trying to reveal the secrets of the universe to him. 

“Oh. So where are you getting bread?” Marius looked up. 

“Oh, we’ve had to settle for the supermarket stuff. It’s not the best, but they’re already doing work on the old site. Some man has bought it and plans to run it in two parts, half as an old style patisserie and half an ordinary bakery.” Gramps nodded as Marius continued talking. 

“Valjean, I think his name was. Anyway, I’ve got a meeting set up with him for Wednesday morning. With a bit of luck we will be able to bulk order bread and cakes and the like from him and everything will run smoothly again.” Gramps nodded and perhaps realising that Marius was likely to go into great detail about his hopes for the goods the new bakery would supply, he changed the subject. 

“How is all the staff? What about Nicolette? Is Nicolette all right?” Marius’ brow furrowed in confusion. 

“Nicolette? I don’t think we’ve ever had a Nicolette work here.” 

“You know, that tall girl. Red hair, wide shoulders. Palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” 

Marius laughed, light and merry. 

“You mean Olympie, Gramps. She hasn’t worked here for the three years.” Gramps frowned, taken aback slightly. 

“Then who’s that girl you’ve got here with you?” Marius looked down at his empty cup again, wishing that it would refill itself. 

He’d already been through 3 drinks since lunch time, and purposefully cleaned the machine to discourage himself from making another. 

“Eponine.” Marius replied softly. Gramps nodded. 

“Eponine. That name sounds familiar, I think I remember you mentioning her before.” Marius laughed again. 

“That’s most likely, she’s one of my best friends.” Gramps frowned, his eyes darting back and forth as he searched for a memory, forgotten or never made at all. 

“Have I met her parents?” He asked, instantly regretting it as a dark shadow passed over his grandson’s face. 

“No. Nor would you want to.” 

Gramps face paled a little. 

“Why, what have they done?” 

Marius’ lips twitched. 

“It isn’t my place to say.” He replied, a hint of bitterness almost concealed in his voice. 

“She works for you, if she’s-“ But he didn’t get to finish his thoughts as Marius angrily cut him off. 

“She has done nothing wrong. They used her, when she was younger. A child. No, not like that.” He hastened to add as his grandfather’s eyes widened in horror. 

“They loved her, but just because you love someone doesn’t mean you cannot abuse them. She was caught stealing CD’s off the shelf when she was 12. Her father was standing outside. He’d promised her an ice cream if she did it well. She never stole for them again. Moved out of home at 18. She’s a smart girl, really smart. Witty and strong. A perfect employee.” There was a ferocity in Marius’ eyes that scared his grandfather. 

A passion that reminded him that if there was something he believed in then he was willing to fight for it and damn anyone who tried to stop him. 

Gramps took a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly to allow his grandson a few moments to calm down. 

“I didn’t mean to pry. I only wanted to be sure that you weren’t being taken advantage of.” Marius managed a small smile. 

“I know Gramps. I know.” He didn’t doubt that his Gramps loved him.

He wouldn’t give him so much freedom in the café if he did not, he would have sold the little place long ago. 

But sometimes he wished he would let him breathe a little. Marius still hadn’t told Gramps that he been trying to find his father again, hoping for an address or a social networking page, terrified of what might occur if Grandfather Gillenormand discovered his attempt at correspondence. 

It hadn’t been pretty the first time Gramps had caught him, and Marius was determined it wouldn’t happen again. The computer was the only place that Marius ever felt he could truly get away from his grandfather. 

Unlike his step-grandmother, who had embraced every new technology like a plant grows towards sunlight, Gramps refused steadfastly to learn the ways of mobile phones or personal computers. 

He had only recently conceded to owning a DVD player after he realised that it would be the only way of ensuring he could watch his favourite movies as most were no longer shown on free-to-air television. 

He approved of little, be it artificial additives in food or automatic transmission in cars. 

Grandfather Gillenormand wasn’t overtly racist, or sexist, although he did hold firmly those casually offensive views that were so common among his contemporaries and the source of much tension between him and his grandson. 

Neither was he entirely comfortable with the growing visibility of homosexuality, but he at least had the decency to look ashamed when Marius called him out on some of those views. 

Almost as if she had heard her name, Eponine appeared at the door, fumbling stubbornly with her key rather than tapping on the window and asking one of the men to open the door for her. 

As it was she didn’t seem to have noticed Gramps until she’d entered the café and let her bag and coat fall to the floor with a happy sigh of relief. 

“Oh, your grandfather is still here. I thought you’d have finished by now.” She addressed Marius while adjusting her hat, examining her reflection in the cold display cabinet before turning to face his grandfather. 

“Hello, I’m Eponine.” She said, offering him her hand and smiling sweetly. 

Gramps rose swiftly and easily, quick and agile for a man of his age, accepting Eponine’s hand with a rigid politeness. 

“Monsieur Gillenormand. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” A smirk played across the young woman’s face for a moment, amused by the formality that the man had assumed, before they released the handshake and the moment passed without comment. 

“What are you doing here ‘Ponine?” Marius asked, when she started dragging tables and chairs together in a messy, haphazard fashion. 

She turned and looked at him sharply, and then upon realising that he was no joking she let out an exasperated sigh. 

“I knew you’d forget. I never should have let you schedule two meetings on the same evening.” Marius froze. Then it hit him like tidal wave. 

“What time is it?” He asked, wanting to do so many things at once that he ended up doing nothing at all, not even standing from his chair. 

“5:25.” Eponine replied, trying to fit two tables together that even a child could see were never going to fit. 

The café tables were odd and mismatched with each one a unique shape and none of them had anything close to a corner. The best you could hope for was a close cluster. 

“Gramps…” Marius started to say, the old man stiffening slightly at the use of the affectionate nickname in front of a veritable stranger before cutting his grandson off. 

“No, I understand. It’s perfectly fine.” He said primly. Marius wanted to roll his eyes but he held back. 

The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Gramps in front of Eponine or he wouldn’t hear the end of it for months. Gramps did not forget, not anything, not ever. 

“No, it isn’t.” Marius pressed. 

“It’s my day off tomorrow, I can drop by your house and we can continue the conversation.” Marius knew that there would be no business discussed. 

The offer would be enough to placate his grandfather; he liked it when Marius’ showed initiative. 

“Yes, that will work. Until tomorrow then.” Gramps handshake was fluid but awkward, as though he couldn’t decide if he was pleased that Marius was going to come round to visit or annoyed that he was being asked to leave his own café. 

Marius offered to walk him around to the carpark but the old man proudly refused, murmuring something about women under his breath. 

One of the tables Eponine was trying to move was a large one meant for six made of heavy teak. She had no hope of shifting it on her own and only managed to drag it a few inches before she gave up, giving one of the legs a swift kick and letting out a stream of swearwords as pain shot through her foot. 

“Leave it ‘Ponine, there’s enough here already. There aren’t that many of us.” She whirled around to face him, her expression thunderous. 

Her cheeks flushed faintly as she stuck out her tongue at him. 

“You know as well as I do that we manage to sprawl ourselves out across the entire café. What is it in here? 300 square feet give or take?” Marius glanced around the room. 

“Yeah, that sounds right.” He said, shrugging. 

“Put eleven people in here with books and notes and bags and jackets and guitars and whatever else Prouvaire ends up bringing along with him like that bunch of flowers the other week. Then add food and drinks and the fact that Grantaire needs about 4 chairs and a table to himself, because he is apparently incapable of sitting like a human, and you quickly run out of space.” Eponine fired back at him. 

Marius looked at her sceptically. 

“You’ve already pushed every other table into the centre of the room. I’m sure we can do without that one.” This time she screwed her face up at him, making her eyes cross and her nose crinkle. 

Marius flashed her a quick half smile and she immediately broke out into a beaming grin. 

“Your grandfather didn’t give you too much grief did he?” She asked, all playfulness melting away from her face. 

Marius barely managed to get out a ‘no’ before the café door swung open and a striking young man strode in out of the cold. 

Snow clung to his heavy boots, and the thick black coat could not hide the tight jeans that hugged his thighs as he walked. 

With an almost ethereal elegance he sank into the chair closest to the door. 

Marius felt like applauding, and a swift glance at Eponine suggested she was feeling the same way, a little bit like someone had just punched her in the face. 

Enjolras often had that effect on people. It was fine when you were expecting him, but when he was suddenly thrown on you like that it was a bit like being drunk. 

Feuilly had more than once suggested that he was descended from Veelas, although never to his face. 

“Evening Enjolras.” Marius greeted him when he remembered how to use his tongue. 

“Marius.” Was the curt response. 

“Eponine.” He added, nodding slightly in her direction. 

The door opened again and the familiar figure of Grantaire slipped into the room and flopped into the chair next to Enjolras. 

Marius wondered if he’d been standing down the street waiting for Enjolras to arrive. 

Grantaire looked like he had gotten dressed in the knit section of a second hand store in the dark. His sweater, gloves, scarf, and hat were all lumpy and woollen but none of them matched any of the others. 

“Evening all.” He said breezily. 

“Hey R.” Eponine replied with a smile. 

Grantaire returned it enthusiastically. 

“Hey Marius, do you have anything to drink?” Everyone in the room was aware that the ‘anything’ to which Grantaire was referring to was not tea or coffee. 

“Pear cider?” They’d just got a fresh shipment of it in, so it wouldn’t matter if Grantaire worked his way through a few bottles. 

“That would be grand.” Grantaire said, trying to take his left glove off. 

It wasn’t an easy task as he couldn’t feel through the glove on his right hand and the wool kept slipping. 

Enjolras shot him a disapproving look but chose to say nothing as he started emptying his bag onto the table.

Books and sheets of paper soon covered the table and Eponine picked up one of them curiously as Marius went about making a pot of tea for the table.

“L'Idée du communisme?” She asked, flipping through a few pages.

“The May ‘68 Protests? Bit before our time really.” She immediately realised her mistake when Enjolras’ eyes turned cold and colour flooded his cheeks.

“No, don’t. I know what I said, I know it was wrong. Please don’t start, I’m sorry.” She didn’t fancy a lecture on the importance of France’s revolutionary history to the struggles of today just because she’d momentarily forgotten she was talking to Enjolras and not Courfeyrac or Bossuet. 

She was saved from the beginnings of a passionate reply by the very noisy entrance of Bahorel. 

“It’s fucking cold out there.” He announced loudly, rubbing gloved hands together and moving off to stand below one of the heating vents in the ceiling. 

“At least it’s still in the positives.” Marius replied from behind the counter. 

“It’s zero degrees.” Grantaire said with a derisive snort.

“Not for long. Have you seen the forecast? They’re predicting -11 on Friday.” Bahorel said, turning up the collar of his heavy grey woollen coat and hugging it to himself.

“Ew.” Eponine said with a shiver as the door once again swung open, bringing with it a flood of crisp air. 

A tall, slim man wearing an enormous cream sweater with cherries on it over the top of a black turtleneck walked in. He didn’t look at anyone as he made his way to the back of the room, hand clutching protectively at the strap of his bag. 

He slid into the chair as far away from anyone else in the room as he could possibly be and sat there without a word. This quiet unassuming man was Jean Prouvaire.

Jean insisted on spelling his name with an h in the middle, which prompted Grantaire to refer to him as ‘that hipster idiot’. 

When Bahorel had helpfully pointed out that Grantaire was a hipster idiot himself the two men had gotten into a fight that lasted for half an hour. 

It had only ended when Grantaire disappeared in a huff after Bahorel, having grown weary of Grantaire’s persistent denial, had declared that “if it looks like a hipster, and quacks like a hipster, it is a hipster.”

Enjolras had put a ban on the use of the word in subsequent meetings, where it joined an illustrious list of terms such as “shithead”, “dicknose”, “jelly-fucker”, and Bahorel’s personal favourite, “beslubbering fat-kidneyed boar-pig” which he had insisted was Shakespeare. 

Jehan had muttered something about there being no such quote before blushing and pretending to be very interested in his fingernails. Most of Bahorel’s favourite insults were bastardisations of Shakespeare.

The door flew open again and two men tried to enter at once, jamming themselves into the frame and bouncing back into the street. 

One of them looked like he may have been made of marshmallow with the numerous layers of clothing he’d squeezed himself into. 

A long dark grey coat covered an unknown number of sweaters and shirts as the neckline was covered by a blue scarf that was wound up and over the man’s nose. 

A matching blue beanie and thick blue gloves ensured that the only part of him that was exposed to the cold evening air of Paris was his eyes. 

“After you Joly.” The marshmallow man’s companion said, stepping aside and making a sweeping gesture with his hand. 

Joly thanked his fellow and stepped inside, hurrying as Bahorel had straight to heating vent. His friend swiftly followed, leaping on the fresh pot of tea that Marius had set down on the table and pouring himself a cup. 

The friend’s name was Lesgle but no-one had called him that in a long time. Instead he went by Bossuet. In spite of the chill and his thinning hair he did not wear a hat. 

“I think I’m getting the flu.” Joly lamented. 

Bossuet walked around the tables, almost spilling hot tea all over Jehan’s poetry book when he collided painfully with a chair, and peered at Joly’s face. 

“No you’re not.” Bossuet told him. 

“Yes, I am. I’m burning up, I know I am and I’ve got a cough.” Joly insisted. 

Bossuet held the back of his hand against Joly’s forehead. It was still icy from the bitter winds. 

“You’re fine Joly. I’ve been with you all afternoon. I didn’t hear you cough once.” He said firmly. 

Joly was studying medicine and it had left him acutely aware of every ache and pain. 

“You fell asleep watching Planet Earth, you wouldn’t know.” Joly fired back, pulling his scarf down off his face.

Bossuet had no fixed address. He liked to pretend that he was a drifter, floating from place to place and never settling down but the reality was that for the last few months he had been at Joly’s one bedroom apartment more often than he’d been away from it. 

They continued to argue in good-nature about whether Joly was indeed coming down with an illness while Enjolras started placing folders around the tables. 

Marius knew what they would contain. Upon opening one of them he would either find pages of photocopied newspaper articles and printouts of blog entries, painstakingly sought out by Enjolras since the last meeting, or he would find photocopies of textbooks and essays on the social and revolutionary history of France. 

Then they would be encouraged to discuss each and every one of them, which they would do at length before Enjolras would allow them to freely talk about anything else that took their fancy. 

Last week it had been the current affairs so it stood to reason that this week it would be the history. 

At that moment a man walked in the door with water dripping from his coat. The back of his trousers were wet and his hair clung damply to his skull.

“Courf, are you okay?” Marius asked, hurrying over to his friend.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s a bit melty out there and I stepped in a wet patch and over I went.” Courfeyrac replied, shivering.

“Did you hit your head?” Joly asked, practically sprinting around the tables to reach them. All concern about his own health had vanished as he switched easily into doctor mode.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so but it all happened so fast. I might have.”

Joly peered closely at Courfeyrac’s eyes.

“I need to check you out.” He announced.

“Let’s get you upstairs and into some dry clothes Courf. Joly can make sure you aren’t concussed or anything then.” Marius said, throwing an arm over his friends shoulder and steering him towards the narrow hall at the rear of the café.

Joly followed behind, listing all the things he needed to do to check for concussion under his breath.

“I’ll come with you.” Jehan said, standing up and looking concerned.

“I don’t think we need three people.” Marius started to say but Courfeyrac interrupted him.

“Let him come please.” He said quietly. Marius nodded.

“Fine. Okay Prouvaire, come on.” The four of them disappeared down the hall in pairs.

It was oddly silent in the café for a short time after they left until those left behind became aware of it and began to talk amongst themselves.

Bahorel started to tease Bossuet about his hair, which Bossuet good-naturedly fought back against in a fashion that quickly descended into a ridiculous, exaggerated stage argument.

“Is this from your personal library or borrowed from the university?” Grantaire asked, picking up one of the enormous books that Enjolras had bought with him and examining it.

He often teased Enjolras of living in a house so full of books that even his bed must be made of books and its sheets of woven pages.

“It’s mine.” Enjolras said, starting to settle down for the first time since entering the café.

He’d finally gotten all the prep laid out and now it was just a matter of waiting for stragglers and those playing doctors and nurses upstairs.

“Have you read it?”

“Open it.” Grantaire did and was immediately greeted by a page covered in highlighted passages and notes scrawled in the margins.

As he flipped through it he realised that every page had undergone the same treatment.

“God.” It was the only response that he could think of.

While the boys carried on their conversations, Eponine could feel herself sliding deeper and deeper into boredom.

She wasn’t in the mood for joking insults, even though she could go toe to toe with best when she was in form, and she sure as hell was not about to jump into the alternative conversation. Not after she’d seen the ridiculous number of notes in that book.

So when Combeferre walked through the door she practically leapt on him.

“Mademoiselle Eponine.” He said, bowing slightly as he held out a hand for her to shake.

Laughing, she pushed his hand aside and pulled him in to a hug. He promptly picked her up and spun her around, almost taking Enjolras out with his feet although the man seemed not to notice as he animatedly told Grantaire about something that he’d read.

“Hello everyone. Not that there is much of an ‘everyone’. I thought I was going to be the last one here. Sorry I’m late.” He said to the room as he carefully set Eponine down.

The clock on the wall told them that it was just after quarter to 6.

“Where is everyone?” 

The boys pointed upstairs almost in unison.

“Courf slipped on his way over. Marius is getting him some dry clothes, Joly is checking him for concussion, and Prouvaire…well we aren’t exactly sure why Jehan’s gone with them but he has.”

Eponine told him, finding herself the only person in the room to realise that pointing upstairs didn’t really explain much at all.

“So we’re only missing Feuilly then?” Combeferre asked, taking off his coat and hanging it over the back of the chair to the left of Enjolras.

“You missed me?” A voice came from the door.

“Only him. The rest of us don’t care.” Grantaire said before draining the last of his cider. 

“Eponine…” He started but at the fire in her eyes he quickly stopped.

“I’ll just get another one myself.”

“Good idea.”

While Grantaire went behind the counter to fetch a cider, Feuilly settled himself into a chair about halfway down the group of tables.

“Sorry I’m so late, my last installation took longer than it should have. We had to replace the wiring in the ceiling because rats had been chewing at it before we could even begin to put in the new fan.” He said, grabbing an empty cup and pouring himself some tea.

“Don’t worry, I only just got here myself.” Combeferre said, grinning.

“Grab me one will you R?” He added as Grantaire opened the fridge.

Eponine winced audibly when Grantaire tossed the bottle over the counter. Combeferre caught it expertly in one hand, twisting the lid of as easily as if it had made of foil.

“Just because we only charge you the wholesale price does not mean you can throw them around the fucking room.” She said, rounding on Grantaire.

“We didn’t break anything, it’s fine.” Grantaire replied with a broad smile. Eponine rolled her eyes.

The sound of footsteps coming down stairs echoed down the hall and everyone fell silent again.

“How is he?” Bossuet asked as Joly preceeded Marius into the room.

“Definite concussion. He started getting a headache and feeling nauseous. We’ve left Jehan up there monitoring him while he lies on Marius’ bed. He’ll let us know if anything changes.” Joly announced to the room.

“It’s not serious though?” Combeferre pressed.

“It doesn’t seem to be, no.” Joly replied.

The room seemed to let out an audible sigh even though no one had noticed that they’d all been tense and anxious.

“Well if everyone is here that can be here, let’s take our seats and get started.” Enjolras said, sensing that if he didn’t call everyone to order soon then he would lose them for the night.

Enjolras, Grantaire, and Feuilly were already seated. Combeferre sat where he had put his coat, now finding himself between Enjolras and Feuilly. Bahorel rounded the tables and sat beside Grantaire. Bossuet waited until Joly took a seat, near the now-abandoned seat of Jehan, and sat between him and Bahorel.

Marius took the vacant chair next to Feuilly and Eponine happily settled herself next to him. Picking up the folder in front of him Marius opened it and glanced at the first page. He was right. It was history. 

History lessons had never been something that Marius had expected when he joined the group but he had found it surprisingly interesting and useful, even if he felt that Enjolras often took them too seriously.

“The Coup of 18 Brumaire? Isn’t that when Napoleon abandoned his troops in Egypt and sail back to France?” He asked conversationally when he saw the title on the first page in his folder.

Enjolras looked up at him coldly.

“A lie spread by his political opponents. He had been ordered by the Directory, which you would know if you’d been doing the readings I’ve assigned.”

Marius did not like this Enjolras, the hard taskmaster. It was easy to forget when he was giving stirring speeches about money for the poor, equal rights for women and queers and people of colour and all those other oppressed groups, his eyes lighting up with passion and his face glowing enlightenment. Easy to forget that sometimes he was this, a solid believer that an intimate knowledge of the past was the only way to move successfully into the future. 

When otherwise discourse and debate was encouraged, in moments like this even the smallest mistakes where met with icy fury.

“I’m so sorry for not being an expert on Napoleonic history.” Marius snapped and for a moment Enjolras’ unshakeable veneer cracked.

It smoothed itself over almost as quickly leaving no trace of the mortal man behind.

Marius had been trying hard, at Enjolras’ request, to learn more about Napoleon and Robespierre and 1830 and 1848 and anything else that he had been told was important to know in greater detail than what school had provided. 

To be criticised so harshly for an honest mistake infuriated him. The very first time that Marius had attended one of these meetings he had made the mistake of mentioning Rousseau in a way that was not wholly flattering. 

Enjolras had taken offense on Rousseau’s behalf and argument had broken out, not the friendly academic kind, and it was only Combeferre’s quick tongue that had diffused the situation. 

Today it seemed to be happening again.

“He’s trying Enjolras. Let it go.” Combeferre murmured gently from his left. Enjolras continued to gaze over at Marius for a few moments, no doubt intending to impress upon him some lesson, before he relaxed and gestured to the folders.

“As Marius has so helpfully introduced us, we may as well get started.”

Sometimes Marius had the distinct impression that Enjolras only tolerated his presence because he provided the society with a place to meet in private, free of charge. 

Grantaire assured him that this was indeed the case while Combeferre insisted that Enjolras simply cared more about his ideology than any one person. His concern was equality, socialism, and communism, and not whether or not people thought he liked them. 

Enjolras did like them, Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Joly and Feuilly and Prouvaire and Bossuet and Eponine and even the unruly Bahorel and ever-bored Grantaire; it was plain to see if you knew what to look for. 

They all loved Eponine, which did not surprise Marius in the slightest. She was his best friend besides Courfeyrac and he had yet to meet a person his own age who did not instantly take a shine to either one of them. 

It was this collection of boys and that one bright woman that formed the society they called the Friends of the ABC, both a play on the word abaisses and a reminder that they were just the beginning. 

Les Amis; a collection of charisma, intellect, hope, determination, cynicism, and a deep love of people and country. They’ll be there - in some shape or form, under different names and with different faces - every day. 

Sometimes in Paris, sometimes in New York or London or Beijing or Moscow. If you went back to the 1700’s, or forward to 2300, they will be there too. The youthful spirit of hope and change never leaves. You only need to go looking.


End file.
